


A Distemper of Asses

by Smirkdoctor (orphan_account)



Series: Rosie Watson Parentlock Fluff [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Chicken Pox, M/M, Parentlock, Playing doctor...no really, Sick Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-03 11:42:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10966512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Smirkdoctor
Summary: John Watson thought one patient with the chicken pox was enough. But can he handle caring for a sick Sherlock Holmes as well?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SundayDuck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SundayDuck/gifts).



John was entering his third patient room of the morning when he was tapped on the shoulder by Nancy, the nurse who had been working with him since Mary went out on maternity leave.

Mary…his Mary…lying bleeding on the floor of the London Aquarium, blue light reflecting off her pale hair and face…

John shook himself out of his reverie and nodded at the patient, his smile tight, before turning toward the interruption and closing the exam room door.

“Yes, Nancy, what is it?” John’s thumb and forefinger automatically found the bridge of his nose, squeezing almost superstitiously to ward off whatever headache this turn of events would surely cause.

“John…” the quiet, concerned tone of her voice, usually reserved for blood draws on anxious patients, made Dr. Watson lift his head to meet her eyes. She was holding out the office’s cordless, waiting for John to take it, “it’s Rosie.”

John felt his stomach drop to his toes, a quick, indrawn breath doing nothing to stop his head from spinning. He passed his clipboard off to Nancy and quickly stepped around the corner before bringing the phone to his ear, his voice pitched low with concern, “Martha, how is she?”

“Oh, John, I’m so sorry. Rosie…well, she’s turned spotty, and she won’t stop scratching.” He could practically hear Martha Hudson worrying at the bow on her blouse as Rosie cried quietly in the background. “If I didn’t know she’d been vaccinated…I mean, I held her myself for those awful pokes…”

“Chicken pox.” John let his forehead fall against the wall of the clinic hallway, contemplating his shoes against the dingy tile. Of course the daughter of a physician would come down with breakthrough chicken pox.

Mrs. Hudson’s babysitting agreement applied only when Rosie was well, so John was looking at at least two days home sick with a very itchy little girl. He breathed in, muttering "...shit” on the exhale.

"John Watson! You’ve been a father for two years. I should think you could control yourself!”

“Sorry, Mrs. H. Won’t happen again.” John motioned for Nancy to come take the phone as he ended the call with, “I’ll be home at lunch to take over. Where’s Sherlock?”

*******

Sherlock Holmes was leading a pack of monstrously inept New Scotland Yard detectives down the hall at a crime scene, rattling off case details on his way to a stunning revelation. Hopkins ran into his back when he stopped to strip off his coat, using his scarf to swab rivulets of sweat off his forehead.

“Jesus, Sherlock. Are you feeling okay?” Greg Lestrade grabbed one of Sherlock’s hands to turn the man to face him, then squinted at the blotchiness of Sherlock’s neck and face. “Holy hell, what’s this rash?”

“I’m sure it’s nothing.” Sherlock attempted to throw Greg’s grip off his wrist, but failed. Which was…unusual. He stopped his struggle in front of a convenient mirror and focused on the clear blisters on his rapidly reddening skin.

“Sherlock, have you ever had the chicken pox?" 

Sherlock let his fingers hover over a pock just above his right cheekbone and spoke to his reflection, considering. “You’d have to ask Mummy…or Mycroft.”

“Ta, mate, I’ll do just that.” Greg already had his mobile in hand, and if Sherlock had been more lucid and less symptomatic, he might have noticed the number of presses Lestrade *didn’t* have to make before he lifted the phone to his ear.

“Myc…” he glanced sideways at Sherlock and grimaced slightly, “…croft. *ahem* Mr. Holmes. Do you happen to remember if your baby brother has ever had the chicken pox?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, a weak protest at best. Now that he thought of it, his head was pounding and his muscles shaking more than any "on a case, no time to eat" low blood sugar warranted. He let his coat and scarf drop on the floor and turned his back to lean against the wall. Finally, with more effort than it should have required, he brought his attention back to Lestrade.

The inspector’s face was level with Sherlock’s for once, and his grim nod and glance assessing Sherlock’s sweaty, splotchy body seemed to confirm Mycroft’s answer. Greg ended the call with a rushed, “We’ll talk later, yeah?” then pocketed his mobile and passed a hand briefly over his eyes.

“Hopkins, get Holmes a chair. And can someone call his keeper?”

**********

John swore as his phone buzzed for the tenth time on the short cab ride from his clinic to Baker Street. His abrupt departure from work had left the other doc a bit in the lurch, and John had fielded several questions about a patient who was teetering on the knife-edge between heart and kidney failure.

Interspersed had been several calls from Greg, but John could decline any invites for a pint at the local pub once Rosie was settled.

The cab stopped in front of 221 and John hopped out quickly, placing his fare in the driver’s palm. He hopped the two steps to the entrance and was gathering himself to face his grumpy but probably still adorable daughter when the heavy black door swung inwards and Rosie was pushed into his arms.

“Oh, John…I’m sorry, but this little one has been so trying today. We tried socks on the hands to keep from scratching, but she squawked something terrible, and I felt guilty. She had a bit of Tylenol just after I called you, but I don’t have any calamine in the house, and…well, here we are.”

Martha Hudson, for all she dealt beautifully with a detective tenant and the assorted dregs of society he brought to her door, looked ready to admit defeat in the face of a poxy two-year-old.

John held his daughter out and looked her over. He’d seen a few cases of breakthrough varicella, and the disease was generally milder than what he remembered from childhood, but of course Rosie had to be exceptional in this way as well. Her chubby face, neck, and arms were well-covered with blisters and red splotches, many with tiny excoriations running across the lesions.

“Oh, Rosie, love. Just because it’s your name doesn’t mean you had to turn so red,” John murmured against his daughter’s hot, sticky brow.

“It’s alright Martha. She’s headstrong at the best of times. Go have an herbal soother and a lie down. I’ll collect her things.” John’s placed a quick kiss on Mrs. Hudson’s cheek, and the woman blew out a relieved breath, the tension leaving her shoulders.

“And that’s reason number seventy-eight why I’m glad I didn’t have children,” she joked weakly as she led the way back to her flat.

“Dada Da Daaaaaa,” Rosie whined, a put-upon expression on her tiny face as she reached her hand up to scratch a particularly red patch on her chin.

Without missing a beat, John stopped that motion, moved Rosie to his shoulder, and caught up to Mrs. Hudson, throwing the landlady a cheeky smile as he asked, “Were reasons one through seventy-seven some variation of ‘I was married to a cartel leader’?”

“Oh, you!” She swatted at John affectionately. “You’re as bad as Sherlock sometimes.” And there it was, the flip of the nostalgia switch. Her eyes became guarded, her smile sad. “I do so wish the two of you would…I mean…there is the extra room…if you need it…”

“Ta for the compliment. Now where’s that bag?” John cut her off before they could retread old ground. Since becoming Rosie’s primary sitter, Mrs. Hudson had been dropping hints about Sherlock’s attachment to John and his daughter. According to her, he had a habit of moping after the Watsons headed home each evening.

Their de facto housekeeper and den mother also made it no secret that she thought Rosie should have two parents in her life, and that John’s commute and the rent for his flat across town were inconveniences not to be tolerated. John usually changed the subject by asking why she didn’t enjoy the free nightly violin concerts.

He had been over the same argument in his head a thousand times. Sometimes, when he was alone in the darkness of his flat, comfortable and half asleep in his too-large bed, Rosie breathing a peaceful rhythm on the monitor, he let himself consider the greatest feature of interest.

Could it work? He asked himself night after night. 

Maybe a year and a half after Mary’s death, a year since Sherlock’s last drug relapse, since John lost his temper in the most awful way imaginable…maybe a year full of weekly therapy sessions was long enough.

Maybe it was finally time to openly acknowledge the magnetic pull, the complicated emotions between himself and his best friend.

John shook his head and pushed his conundrum to its assigned back corner of his brain, placing that same old pin in his desires. His only worry right now was how to be a good father to a sick child. He bent to grab Rosie’s pink and green bird-print tote and shrugged it onto the shoulder opposite where she was rubbing her snot and tears into his collar.

“Well, I hope Sherlock won’t mind a couple of visitors this afternoon. This girl would benefit greatly from a bath and a good, long nap. Post haste, I think, *young Watson.*"John dropped his voice low in his best Sherlock Holmes impression, earning a startled glance and tiny smile from Rosie.

He laughed and rubbed noses with his daughter before calling a farewell to Mrs. Hudson, who was already rearranging the containers on her worktop. He glimpsed her reaching for a small cookie jar tucked behind the rest and coyly labeled “Herbal Tea.”

But the thought of something more with Sherlock wouldn’t leave him, and John considered the situation as he walked to the foot of the staircase. Maybe right now was the right time to dig deeper into his feelings for Sherlock, to poke at any corresponding emotions that infuriating man might be hiding.

He and Rosie could stay over for a night or two, see how Sherlock fared with a live-in daughter and...partner. John blushed slightly and tilted his head to rub one pink cheek against Rosie’s. Yes, perhaps there was a bit of promise here.

He placed his foot on the bottom stair and prepared for the climb that always made him feel a bit like a pack animal, weighed down as he was by his daughter and her accessories. But before he could ratchet himself onto the first of seventeen steps, the street door flew open with a bang, followed by stumbling and cursing.

John turned, wondering what in the world Sherlock was up to now, ready to chide him softly for such language around young Watson, but stopped, mouth agape, as the other man turned from closing the door and swayed on his feet.

Sherlock’s limp, sweaty hair was plastered to his forehead, his glassy eyes staring from the middle of a ruddy, spotted face. With growing dread, John stepped closer and raised a hand, hesitant to touch. A single vesicle sat as evidence of Sherlock’s vulnerability…a delicate dew drop on the rose petal of his cheek.

“Well, fuck,” John said, rousing Rosie from her grumbling stupor.

“S’lock!” Rosie reached for her best friend. Sherlock took in her blotchiness and nodded slowly, the puzzle pieces falling into place. And then, belying how unwell he felt, he stepped past without taking her into his arms, patting her blonde head before beginning a slow trudge up the stairs.

When Sherlock had reached the middle of the flight, he turned to make sure they were following. Seeing them at the bottom of the stairs, Rosie sniffling and tugging on John’s jumper while he stared into the middle distance, Sherlock summoned his doctor’s attention, “Come along, John. You seem to have two patients in need of care.”

“Right,” John breathed, adjusting Rosie and her bag on his shoulders before beginning his own slog. His sudden weariness made the climb to 221B feel like a trek up Everest. Primary varicella infection was much worse for adults than children, and he had no doubt that the great detective would be a most difficult charge. But the physician-soldier kept on, marching into battle.

*********

Clearing the door to his flat, Sherlock shed his outer layer in a pile on the floor and walked slowly to the bathroom, opening the medicine cabinet to find paracetamol pills for him, liquid for Rosie. He popped two tablets from the blister pack and dry-swallowed them, placed the small bottle of red fluid and a pink container of calamine lotion on the edge of the sink, then opened the door to his bedroom, where he collapsed face-down, fully dressed, into the blessed coolness of his well-made bed.

**********

Although the open door to Sherlock’s room called to John, he first focused on making Rosie more comfortable. By the looks of things, Sherlock had dosed himself appropriately with fever-reducer, and was sleeping fitfully yet quietly for now.

John turned the faucets to allow lukewarm water to fill the tub as he peeled off Rosie’s shirt, skirt, and nappy. A quick trip to the kitchen yielded a box of baking soda, and he dumped in three handfuls, allowing the powder to dissolve before depositing a naked, pox-covered Rosie into the tub.

Her usual bath-time glee very much reduced, Rosie batted angrily at the water, but seemed to calm as it soothed some of her itching. She looked up at John with a very concerned face, pointing to a patch of blisters on her belly as she declared, “Rosie spots…bad spots.”

John smiled slightly and kneeled beside the tub, “That’s right, love. Bad spots. Itchy spots.” He dipped a flannel into the water and squeezed it over her shoulders, allowing the bath to calm the inflammation on her arms and trunk. She fussed a bit as he dabbed her cheeks and chin, but quieted as he focused on her back and legs. The first part done, he sat on his heels to watch her play until the water cooled.

A thought occurred, and John dug his phone out of his back pocket. A string of angry texts from Greg appeared. Apparently the calls he didn’t bother to answer hadn’t been about a pint or any case other than that of the speckled detective. John dismissed the notifications and did a quick web search for the nearest delivery pharmacy.

A quick call to an understanding chemist meant that a course of acyclovir for Sherlock, a large supply of oatmeal baths, and both liquid and capsule forms of Benadryl were now on their way, due to arrive at Baker street within the hour.

John stood Rosie in the tub, observing that her skin had dulled from its angry red. He used a towel to pat her dry and wrapped her loosely for the short walk to the sitting room. He grabbed a spare dressing gown from the coat rack and spread it over the cool leather of the sofa for a makeshift work surface. After five minutes work, Rosie was coated in baby lotion and dabbed with calamine ointment. John was generous with the solution, dabbing it over every lesion he could see and some he might just have been imagining.

The end result was a chalky pink, quiet and comfortable little girl. John fastened get into clean nappy then kissed her forehead as he wrapped Sherlock’s silk dressing gown around her. He tried to tell himself that his choice of fabric was due to the gentleness of silk on irritated skin, but he knew that Sherlock’s scent calmed his child as much as it did him.

As John lifted Rosie into his arms, he realized her fever had broken, and by the time he carried her to the portable cot by the windows overlooking the street, she was asleep. Instead of placing her in her makeshift bed, he took some time to gaze at her peaceful face, the gentle flutter of her eyelashes, the pursed lips and wrinkled forehead of the most beautiful little girl in the world.

He didn’t realize he had been murmuring quiet reassurances of love and comfort until Sherlock entered the sitting room from the hallway, clad only in a topsheet, and the words cut off abruptly. Dark blue met opal eyes, and Sherlock sighed, “John…” before crossing to stand behind him.

John struggled to keep his curiosity and libido in check as the object of his long-buried desires pressed against his back and reached around his right side to brush Rosie’s fringe away from a small patch of calamine. “Steady on, Watson,” Sherlock murmured, his warm breath causing the hair on John’s neck to stand on end even as he perceived the fever still radiating off his taller patient.

John swallowed slowly and turned his face toward where Sherlock peered over his shoulder. Even with several new vesicles scattered over the familiar visage, Sherlock Holmes was an incredibly handsome man.

Sherlock’s eyes wandered over his face, pausing longer than strictly decent on his lips, and John felt rather than heard the held breath as he moistened them with his tongue. When Sherlock spoke, his voice was like gravel. “It appears that I, too, am in need of a doctor.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the continuing adventures of Dr. John Watson and the chicken pox duo, I bring you...literal tons of sexual tension and some sexy bathing.

As a soft knock sounded on the door to 221B, John widened his eyes and snapped his attention back to Rosie. He felt Sherlock’s grumbling baritone as he stepped away from the cozy domestic scene to flop on the couch.

Mrs. Hudson walked into the flat on tiptoes, whispering, “John, dear? There’s a package from the pharmacy that I thought…Oh!” Her speech rose in pitch and volume as she caught sight of Sherlock. 

Rosie startled in John’s arms, but settled quickly once he placed cool but still-trembling lips to her forehead. Sherlock’s eyes found his again, somehow imbuing the motion with a deeper intent.

Martha fluttered across the room to settle next to the detective. “Oh, Sherlock! Not you, too! You poor dear!” 

“Hudders!” Sherlock snapped, flapping his hand to discourage her hovering touch. “Well-noted, indeed. I seem to have been infected with the same…virulence as young Miss Watson.” He snatched the paper bag from her grasp and rooted through, pulling out the small pack of anti-viral medication and motioning to John. “And, as you can see, I am under the care of a skilled physician.”

Mrs. Hudson tsked, but abandoned her short-lived vigil. She walked over to peek at the bundled child in John’s arms, wishing him luck with a quick pat on his shoulder. And, wish a final, worried look at her Baker Street boys, she left the flat to its heavy silence.

John watched as Sherlock stood, letting the sheet fall off his shoulders and pool around his waist to display a smattering of red bumps that made John want to scratch himself raw. The other man let the moment hang as he walked to the kitchen, filled a glass of water, and placed the first dose of his prescription into his mouth, his eyes on John the entire time.

The seconds moved like molasses. Sherlock raised the glass for a sip, and a small drop of water ran over his bottom lip, skirting the contours of his chin before dropping onto his Adam’s apple, which seemed to hover at its nadir before bobbing back up as he completed his swallow.

John felt sweat gather under his collar as Sherlock continued draining the glass. He felt frozen in place, unable to break the gaze. It’s just the illness, he thought. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He doesn’t realize what he looks like. 

Finally Sherlock turned back to the sink, refilled his glass, and walked out of the kitchen and into the bath. As John bent to place Rosie in her cot, he heard the taps turn and the tub begin to fill, again, with water.

"Sherlock…” John removed a packet of oatmeal bath from the pharmacy bag on the couch and took a few tentative steps down the hall, wanting desperately to join, to see, to touch Sherlock…but God, not like this.

He cleared his throat and persisted, “Sherlock, make sure the water’s not too warm, or it will make the itching worse. And…you might want this.” John finished lamely as he arrived at the door, reaching blindly around the corner to place the packet on the porcelain sink basin.

“Thank you, John, you’ve been quite helpful.” Sherlock answered from his stoop beside the head of the bathtub. He pivoted to retrieve the oatmeal bath and braced his hip against the sink as he used his trembling hands in an attempt to open the packet.

John sighed and stepped in from the hallway, tearing it open with quick, efficient movements. He squeezed past his friend to upend the contents into the water. He returned his gaze to Sherlock’s body and took several moments to take stock of the toll the virus had taken.

A red, sand-paper-textured rash spread down Sherlock’s neck, across his chest, onto his arms, and showed no signs of stopping at sheet-level. The detective’s face was gaining new blisters each minute, and the vesicles were also spreading along a head-to-toe path. John saw small fasciculations of Sherlock’s muscles and noted the sheen of sweat coating them.

“Let me help you into the tub. You can have a nice, long soak, just like you like.” John ignored the stab of jealousy at the thought of the last person who helped Sherlock in the bath. It was never real, the thing with Janine, he thought.

“Yes,” Sherlock said softly. “I do feel weak, so more…help would be appreciated.” Seemingly without thought, he dropped his loosely-wrapped sheet entirely and reached out to support himself on John’s frame.

This is fine, John repeated, his age-old mantra. It’s all fine. And for the love of Hippocrates, Watson…Don’t. Look. Down. It’s not the time for that. He shook his head. But when would it ever be the time?

Sherlock carefully stepped over the side, then braced himself on the tub, lowering his body on shaking arms into the tepid water. A new shine of beaded sweat appeared at his hairline, and John turned away to soak a fresh flannel in cold water. He draped it over Sherlock’s forehead before rising to stand, mentally listing his responsibilities. I’ll just make a light meal and some tea, check out what food we’ve got in for Rosie, maybe kip a bit on the couch.

But he was stopped from retreating from by a blistered hand circling his wrist. “John…could you…I feel weak. Would you…help?” John’s eyes widened as he took in Sherlock’s earnest face. “Please? Help me bathe?”

**********

Sherlock smiled slightly and peeked out from under the damp flannel once a flustered John turned his back, ostensibly to collect a fresh flannel and a container for rinse water. He heard whispered muttering about an oath, goddammit, and a focus on the patient and what’s best for him.

He truly did feel weak, and had asked for help in this intimate ritual for only twenty-three percent sexual reasons. Apparently a bath, and John’s gentle attention, had done wonders for Rosie’s rash and general state of mind. Sherlock wanted those benefits as well.

By the time the good doctor turned back to his patient, Sherlock had schooled his face into a pathetic half-whimper, the cool cloth once again covering his eyes. He listened with some satisfaction as John heaved a sigh and positioned himself on his knees alongside the bath.

Sherlock had not been idle during his cab ride home, researching the course of adult varicella. He knew that the rash and other symptoms, especially the fever, headaches, and muscular discomfort, were only going to get worse.

So as John swirled a new flannel in the water beside his thigh, Sherlock told himself that he deserved this, the touch of caring hand on his inflamed flesh.

He couldn’t hold back a soft moan as the medicated water dripped off the flannel and onto his itchy shoulder. He breathed a, "Thank you." and heard John’s answering grunt before his breath punched out of his chest at the gentle touch of the cloth against his chest. John dragged the scrap slowly over his nipples and he made no attempt to hide an approving whimper.

Sherlock listened closely as water flowed into a small basin and tensed, unsure where on his body John would choose to run the stream. He expelled a quiet hiss as the water ran over his erect nipples. John once again submerged the cloth, and Sherlock's pelvis rose toward those capable hands, seemingly of its own accord.

“Sherlock," John murmured. Sherlock blinked several times after the flannel was removed from his eyes, but refused to look at John’s face. He felt the other man’s gaze on him, a warm, heavy weight, and was unsurprised when he heard the splash of saturated fabric and felt callused fingers on his chin, gentling his face upward so their eyes could meet.

The moment stretched like lazy taffy. Sherlock tracked the movement of well-known eyes over his face, closing his own when John's settled on his lips, waiting.

The air stirred as John bent over the porcelain barrier between him. One of his hands travelled to the nape of Sherlock’s neck, and he leaned into the support.

“Yes…John,” Sherlock left his lips open after completing his vocalization and leaned in as well. 

Both men startled at the shrill cry emanating from the sitting room. John was on his feet in a matter of seconds, and Sherlock sunk into the water, letting it slosh as he was submerged. He blew a stream of frustrated bubbles and re-emerged, the now-cool water sluicing down his back and shoulders. Sherlock listened to the quite murmurs of comfort and pacing footsteps as John filled a cup to offer his daughter some cool juice.

He used his long toes to pull the drainplug and sat up, reaching for the towel where John had kneeled. After giving himself a brief pat-dry, he half-rose onto shaky legs and used the wall for support as he once again made his way to his bed before collapsing.

*********

Rosie finished her first glass of juice quite quickly, and John ducked into the bathroom, noting Sherlock’s absence with a sigh, to grab another dose of paracetamol. She grimaced slightly as he tilted the dosing spoon against her lips, but swallowed the medicine well enough and requested her next cup of juice with grasping hands. Once finished, Rosie dropped the cup and reached a tiny hand to her leg, beginning to scratch.

“Oh no, ma’am. That’s just not on.” John gently moved Rosie’s fist and swaddled her in the silk dressing gown before lifting her into his arms. He paced the sitting room floor, slowly rocking his precious cargo to sleep. Eventually, one of his meandering crossings took him to the hallway, and he swore he could feel the forces pulling him back into Sherlock’s orbit.

**********

Sherlock noticed a draft of cool air before he heard quiet steps and the absent shushing directed toward Rosie. He turned his head to look at John, who silently acknowledged the unspoken before slipping out of his shoes and walking to the opposite side of the bed. “May we?”

He turned on his back and nodded, and John placed Rosie gently in the cradle formed by Sherlock’s side and bent arm before stripping off his jumper and shirt. Finally, clad in his vest and trousers, John crawled onto the bed and lay on his side, facing the other two occupants.

He reached out to run a comforting hand behind Rosie’s head, but his eyes remained on his face. One caress completed, John passed two fingertips along Sherlock's jaw and neck, letting his arm drape over his daughter as his hand came to rest in the middle of Sherlock’s chest, a heavy question hanging in his expression.

Never breaking their eye contact, Sherlock lifted his right hand and placed it over John’s, intertwining their fingers. He felt the rise and fall of their grasped hands as he watched his bedmate’s eyes drift closed.

"Thank you, John,” Sherlock murmured, lifting the hand to his lips for the gentlest of kisses, “for your time, your touch, your…everything.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And here comes the suffering. Buckle your seatbelts, y'all, because this chapter contains sweat, blisters, and semi-coherent love confessions. 
> 
> Yeah, we'll go with that.

John would be lying if he said the next two days at 221B were anything but Utter. Fucking. Madness. Rosie required medicating and soothing every four hours, with bathing and lotion application nearly as often.

Sherlock had to be woken for his dose of acyclovir five times a day, including overnight, and the usually picky eater only became more difficult to feed as blisters began forming in his mouth. John nodded off several times with his arm propped to hold a glass of water to those parched lips, coaxing precious drops in to offset the fever.

Rosie felt well enough to complain, her whimpers somehow preferable to the utter silence into which Sherlock had descended. He looked absolutely miserable, the itchy rash spreading to every available inch of skin. His fever never came quite under control before spiking skyward again, and new painful vesicles were appearing faster than John could coat them in calamine.

He had blisters scattered from the bottom of his feet to his hairline, even between his toes and in his gluteal cleft. John had, until this week, never seen Sherlock’s most intimate areas, and the time spent smearing chalky pink ointment there was definitely not conducive to growing the tension that had begun during the first few hours of his convalescence.

The sensuous nature of that first bath never materialized again, those heady private moments giving way to a shivering Sherlock curled on a towel spread to protect his bed, John swabbing away old ointment and crust from ruptured blisters and replacing the soothing solution as fast as he could.

Mrs. Hudson made several short appearances, changing sheets and gathering the wash and leaving cups of tea beside John’s chair, and Lestrade stopped by on the second afternoon with an ample supply of Chinese take-out. He accepted the help with a tired, beleaguered smile.

Finally, in the early morning of the third day, Rosie’s fever broke. John walked out of the bedroom, stinking of the adrenaline of treating patients and covered in sweat (although he couldn’t have said if it was his or Sherlock’s), and was greeted with…silence.

Rosie’s illness began to resolve that afternoon, and by the evening she was becoming her happy, playful self again. Once, while her father was out of the room tending to his other patient, she managed to tip a marker into her cot and play a very messy game of connect-the-dots on her legs. When John returned, she proudly displayed her work, and he could only smile, shake his head, and add his own doodle, a heart, before plopping her into yet another bath.

Gently wiping at the black marks, he thought to himself that the impromptu art wasn’t actually such a horrible idea, given that it might help him keep track of which lesions were new. He had a sneaking suspicion that his little girl might be nearing wellness enough to be passed off to Mrs. Hudson the next day.

“What do you say, Rosie? Are you ready to get out of this flat? Maybe go see Mrs. Hudson?” John asked semi-rhetorically as he rinsed soap off her head with a splash from an inverted cup.

She lifted her face, which was covered in a huge, toothy grin, and removed the rubber bath toy she had been chewing to squeal in happiness and say, “Ma Hud!”

John threw back his head and laughed, tears leaking from the slits of his eyes. He worked to regain his breath, and when he had recovered  enough to glance at his daughter, her wide eyes almost set him off again.

“It’s okay, love. Daddy’s just had a long couple of days. Let’s get you settled.” He wrapped her in a towel, did a quick lotion and nappy application, and tucked her back into her cot. Within ten minutes, she was sleeping, entirely at peace. 

John glanced from his daughter to the open door of Sherlock’s quiet bedroom and decided that it was time for a long, hot shower. Surely the invalids would summon him if his healing hands were needed.

**********

Sherlock was in Hell.

His body was betraying him, craving the chemical stimulation that he hadn’t required since…well, since John Watson came back into his life.

Large muscles cramped and trembled with enough force to cause pain deep in his bones, while smaller ones vibrated at just the right frequency to make him feel jittery and deeply unsettled.

And then there was the fever.

The sweat never left him. Truly, he thought, what was the purpose of the liquid leaking from his pores if it wouldn’t evaporate and cool him?

Instead, it collected in the hollows above his collarbones, the wells beside his hips, the indent of his umbilicus. He was drenched in a thickening coat of the acrid sweat of withdrawal.

He knew what would solve all of his problems, but he was frozen in a half-waking nightmare state. If only he could reach his old stash in the bedside table…surely this torture would end if he could inject a small dose of heroin.

And really, it would be a shame to waste the lovely concoction Wiggins had made for him. It was just over a year old, and he’d managed to keep it safe, hidden away from the constant searches that had come after that messy episode with Culverton Smith.

Sherlock reached one long arm toward the table and scooted, bit by bit, toward the edge of the bed. Surely he could reach… it was just…a bit…further.

**********

John had just reached to turn off the spray when he heard the crash. It sounded like six feet of lanky detective hitting the ground in the next room, and taking the contents of the bedside table with him.

He allowed his forehead to fall against the shower wall with a bit more force than necessary, and his vision went white for a second before blending back into focus. He bit his lower lip to hold in some creative swearing and allowed water to drip off his hair and over his face and chin.

He strained to hear if Rosie had been unsettled by the racket, but the cacophony was only coming from the direction of Sherlock’s bedroom. Thank heaven for small miracles, he thought, and snapped into doctor mode, wrenching back the shower curtain and grabbing a towel from the stack Mrs. Hudson had left on the sink.

John wrapped himself in terrycloth and determination and crossed the bathroom to open the door from the loo. Surveying the room, he was startled to see Sherlock on his knees, dressing gown unfastened and flapping loosely around his slim form, rooting frantically through the bottom drawer of his bedside table.

“Sherlock?” John’s words held no reproach, only concern. “Do you need something?”

Sherlock continued his desperate search, not acknowledging John. As he stepped closer, he noticed that his friends’ shoulders were shaking, his soft sobs slipping into the darkness.

“Oh, Sherlock.” The army doctor fell to his knees beside his friend and placed a comforting arm over his skinny shoulders, only to be violently shaken off.

“Wiggins! I’ve told you, don’t touch me. Just give me what you’ve hidden, and leave!”

John sucked in a breath, the rejection of his help a knife to his gut. He tried to remember that whatever was happening, Sherlock wasn’t in his right mind. The fever must be causing him to hallucinate. Or was it just reminding him too strongly of his episodes of withdrawal?

That must be it-- that explained the tears, the desperate nature of Sherlock’s search, his appeal to Wiggins. John stood slowly and pulled the duvet off the bed, wrapping both of them in the warm cotton. He pulled the hysterical man into an awkward hug, working to keep them balanced as he kneeled again.

“Shhhh…Sherlock. I’m here. I’m here. You’re not high, and you’re not coming down from a high. You’re sick, is all. But I’m here to care for you. I care for you so much, Sherlock, and I’ll never leave you alone when you need me again.” John tightened his arms around his friend’s shaking shoulders and, almost without thought, brushed sweat-soaked curls off his forehead and covered the glistening skin with his lips.

The soft kiss calmed the detective. Sherlock gave up his physical struggle. The tension melted from his upper body, and, hands on John’s shoulders, he dropped his head there as well, his sobbing growing in depth and volume.

“John….my John. Why did you leave?” Sherlock pulled his head back and opened his eyes, his bleary gaze meeting John’s through lashes sparkling with tears. Not waiting for John to speak, he shook his head. The grimace on his face said he already knew the answer to that question.

“I loved Mary, John. You must know that. I loved her because she made you happy.” Sherlock buried his face in John’s naked shoulder and made a horrible sniffing sound, rubbing tears and mucus into the scar tissue.

John was slammed with memories of holding dying soldiers as they used their last breaths to cry for home, for their lovers, their mothers. He remembered, too, holding Rosie as she rubbed her itchy misery into that same shoulder just yesterday.

He reached up to pat Sherlock’s back and startled when a cool, damp hand clasped his and brought it to fever-chapped lips instead.

“And when Mary died, John...I was distraught. I made a vow. To her, yes, but to you most of all. And I failed. I let you get hurt. I hurt you.” Sherlock’s whispered words were near impossible to make out through the choked sobs and heavy breathing.

John felt a shuddering breath move through his chest, but restrained himself from speaking. Sherlock had clearly needed to say these things for quite a while, so he simply held his best friend even tighter and moved his hands between protruding shoulder blades, massaging comfort into the other man’s body.

“I understood why you avoided me. I did,” Sherlock was nearly choking, the sounds more moans than words. “But when you took Watson away from me…"

"Up to that point, I thought I could handle anything. But she…she was the only part of you I was allowed to love. And…you snatched her from me and offered that love to anyone….anyone but me.”

With that, Sherlock’s words ran dry, and he fell against John with his entire weight, toppling both of them onto the floor. John somehow kept his arms around Sherlock, and the sick man buried his face into his chest. John dropped his face forward to bring his nose and lips into contact with the thick, dark hair at Sherlock’s crown.

John’s head was reeling from the outpouring of emotion, but all he could do was hold him, pressing words of comfort and love into the dark curls.

They stayed curled together on the hard floor, wrapped in the covers and in each other, until Sherlock quieted. John stood and helped the sick man back into his bed before leaving briefly to check on his daughter.

 When John returned to the bedroom, Sherlock was asleep, the duvet forgotten on the floor. John picked up the fabric, shook it out, and crawled beneath it next to the sleeping man. He pulled Sherlock’s back to his chest, placed his lips against his neck, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I write fic like Jane Austen, apparently. I can get you to the first kiss, and that's it.
> 
> Enjoy these two idiots sorting it out once again.

Martha Hudson had a key to each flat she managed, of course, but the key to 221B was never needed. Over the years that Sherlock had rented the flat (and the dark time when Mycroft had paid to keep it intact after Sherlock’s death), she had grown used to coming and going without much fuss, helping her boys out in whatever little ways she could. 

This morning she was delivering a small overnight bag filled with a change of clothes for poor John. He must be feeling positively grimy, she thought, going on day four of tending his sick family. She paused for a cursory knock before pushing open the door at the top of the stairs.

“John?” 

She glanced around the landing, becoming a little concerned when no answer came and no tired Dr. Watson popped his head out from the kitchen. She checked her watch. Eight o’clock. Surely she couldn’t be waking him.

“John…”

She tiptoed into the sitting room and was greeted by a grinning Rosie as she stood in her cot, bouncing on her toes, arms raised, and babbling.

“Ma! Mama ma ma ma ma!” 

“Oh dear!” Mrs. Hudson dropped the overnight bag on the sofa and crossed to the cot quickly, hoisting Rosie with little difficulty onto her good left hip.

“Well, you certainly seem to be feeling better, my pink-cheeked baby doll!” 

The toddler cheesed a smile and buried her face in the landlady’s neck, her giggles muffled but very much present. Martha patted her back and bounced her slightly. All trace of a fever was gone, and, based on the calamine lotion spotting her tiny body, she had developed no new blisters since her last bath.

“Let’s see if we can find your daddy. I bet he wouldn’t mind if I watched you today! Maybe we can help Mrs. Turner with her cookie recipe.”

At the mention of cookies, Rosie made a “gimme” motion with both hands and nodded emphatically, “’kie!”

Utterly charmed, and having forgotten the frustrations of their last day together, Martha leaned down to blow a raspberry against Rosie’s cool cheek. They entered the kitchen, but there was no sign of John there either.

“Cup!” Rosie said, pointing to the drying rack by the sink. Mrs. Hudson nodded, sat Rosie in her high chair, and filled a sippy cup with whole milk. After fastening her securely into the seat, she excused herself and wandered down the hall. 

Was John so intent on caring for Sherlock that he hadn’t heard her entry or Rosie’s enthusiastic response?

The door to Sherlock’s bedroom stood open, and dim light shone through the window, casting warm pinks and oranges into the dimness. 

And, oh my goodness, warm was certainly the proper descriptor for the scene on display as she entered! 

Sherlock Holmes, clad only in his dressing gown, was spooning a shirtless John Watson. And despite the scratches and blisters on Sherlock’s skin, the two appeared to be at peace.

Mrs. Hudson lifted a hand to her mouth to muffle her giggle. She backed silently out of the room, and shuffled back to the kitchen. She moved John’s bag to the table, jotted a quick note, and disappeared back downstairs, Rosie on her hip.

**********

John was burning up, just beginning to sweat as he awoke. As he attempted to stretch, he realized that he was surrounded by a large, hot, decidedly masculine body. His thoughts careened, trying to make sense of these sensations. Ultimately, he couldn’t force the data to fit any explanation other than that he was in Afghanistan, waking up in James Sholto’s arms. 

Satisfied with this conclusion, he smiled and wiggled backward into the embrace, wondering if the motion in his backside might raise some…interest in the man behind him. His amorous grin grew as the strong arms tightened around him and an overnight beard scratched against his nape.

“Mmm….John.” 

But…that voice was much deeper than he expected. It didn’t sound like James at all.

John’s eyes shot open and he violently broke the embrace, tucking and rolling away from the unidentified man. As he fell off the bed, he maneuvered to land on his knees and peeked over the top of the mattress.

“Just what the bloody hell…” John peered across the space between them and blinked rapidly to clear his vision. Finally, his bedmate came into focus. The man looked just as confused as he felt, gripping a towel and staring blearily back.

John sighed and let his head sag against the sheets. The other man was red, splotchy, and confused, but it was definitely Sherlock.

“Oh my god. I’m…I’m so sorry.” John shook his head, suddenly aware of his military crouch, which was rendered ridiculously civilian by his absolute nudity. At that thought, a tiny giggle erupted, unbidden, from his mouth.

He clapped his hand over the lower half of his face and schooled his eyes to convey contrition in response to the hurt he saw on his friend’s face.

“No, no…Sherlock.” John crawled off the floor and onto the soft bed, kneeling over Sherlock and gently stroking his cheek. “I was confused. I wasn’t *here*. I didn’t know you were you…I thought you were...James.”

At this revelation, Sherlock shook his head minutely and wordlessly worked his jaw. 

John nodded, biting back more nervous laughter. Never had he imagined outing himself to London’s second-smartest man by tumbling naked out of his embrace because a past lover’s memory had mucked up the proceedings. But wasn’t this week becoming more unpredictable every minute?

John repositioned himself, straddling Sherlock’s thighs and pinning his forearms to his sides, oblivious to the exposed state of his groin until the other man’s gaze dropped and…lingered. Glancing down, John was forced to laugh again. 

Wishing to get the conversation back on track, John moved his fingertips to Sherlock’s chin and adjusted his view.

“My eyes are up here.” He made a motion tracing the path of their shared gaze with two fingers. This time it was Sherlock who couldn't hold back his giggle.

“That’s better.” John nodded decisively and looked his patient over, noting a small number of new blisters, including some buried deep in Sherlock’s wig of thick curls. 

“I bet you’re miserable. The itch has to be maddening.” He ran his fingers through the dark hair, stopping when he encountered the first sore. He frowned, glancing at the bedside clock. “And you’re far past due for your medication.”

John clambered off the bed, shrugging off any embarrassment with a smile and a wink before reaching for Sherlock’s hand. “Let me run you a bath. And while you soak, I’ll cook up some breakfast for the three of us.”

He crossed to Sherlock’s wardrobe, grabbing the first dressing gown he encountered. He pulled it off the hanger and flapped the fabric in his friend’s direction. “Hope this is okay… I know I don’t mind.” 

Still struck a bit dumb by the events since he awoke, Sherlock shook his head and looked at John, his eyes dark. He voice dropped as he replied, “Anytime.”

John swallowed and nodded. “I’ll just…go wake Rosie.”

*********

Sherlock had stumbled into the bath, seated himself on the lid of the toilet, and was reaching for the tub’s faucets when he heard John’s low chuckle from the kitchen. Rosie must be acting more like her charming self. He felt the edge of his mouth turn up, cherishing that he was able to think clearly for the first time in over 36 hours. 

He twisted the tap, running the water a bit warmer than his last soak. He pivoted back toward the sink to reach for a packet of oatmeal bath, but stopped when John appeared in the bathroom door. He was holding two pills, a glass of water, and a half-crumpled sheet of paper, but no Rosie.

“John? Where’s Watson?”

John’s head shook slowly, a stunned motion. He passed the pills and then the water to Sherlock, allowing him to swallow the medicine before clearing his throat and reading the message from the paper, his tone approximating a self-satisfied Mrs. Hudson.

“”My dear boys, I am just so happy for you! I’ve taken Rosie for the day, as she seems to be feeling much better. You take all the time you need to *settle in.*’”

John looked over the edge of the paper, his eyebrows waggling. Sherlock’s brow furrowed. What was his busybody of a landlady clucking about now?

Sensing that the detective still hadn’t quite caught on, John dropped his eyes back to the text and resumed his performance. “’I should have known it would be a Florence Nightingale thing with the two of you. Oh, I just can’t wait to share the news with Mrs. Turner!’”

John’s set the paper aside and stepped around Sherlock. He closed the tap to save the bathroom floor from a flood. 

That done, he took a deep breath and turned back to Sherlock. He kept his eyes on the floor as he muttered, “Today seems to be the day for the world to finally settle the question of my sexuality.” 

Sherlock shook his head again, then dropped his jaw as the facts finally aligned. 

John had thought he was waking up next to James Sholto. 

Believing that to be the case, John had sought out more…intimate contact.

Martha Hudson had seen them cuddled together in sleep, semi-naked and peacefully dreaming, and likely half the neighborhood knew the news already. 

Yet...John was still here. 

He wasn’t running away, wasn’t protesting any of it. 

In fact, he was standing quite close to Sherlock, wearing one of his spare dressing gowns. A gown he had dressed himself in while saying, “I don’t mind.”

The context of that statement was the last piece of the puzzle, and as it clicked into place, Sherlock clenched his left hand into a fist where it rested on his thigh…the same thigh that John had branded with his touch on the stag night before his wedding to Mary.

He expelled a breath through pursed lips and focused on the feeling of his nails digging into his palm. He willed the tension to leave his hand and, not yet daring to look at John, he pushed to standing.

As he stepped closer, John made a small, interrogative noise and tilted his head up. Sherlock heard him gulp and felt their gazes lock as they arrived at a common deduction.

His case solved, the detective affected a mock serious tone as his long fingers set about loosening the belted tie on John’s robe. 

“John, it seems you misunderstood me previously. As you remember, I said that I needed a doctor.”

His nose brushed against John’s chin, and he positioned their lips so they touched as he spoke the words he hoped would change their relationship.

John’s dressing gown slipped from his shoulders and Sherlock replaced the fabric with a lingering touch of his fingertips.

“Let…me…clarify.”

He punctuated his pauses with small, chaste kisses before bringing his hands to John’s jaw and moving their faces enough part so that he could look into his lover’s eyes.

“I need *you.*”

And with that utterance, years of missed opportunities and false starts faded away, leaving two men standing only a breath apart. Heads tilted, mouths opened, and warm baths were forgotten as another dressing gown fell to the tiled floor.

**Author's Note:**

> All of the medicine included is legit, but this is un-beta'd, so let me know if you find any errors.
> 
> Oh, and I do have other works on AO3, but I orphaned them. They're the first five of my bookmarks. Anyone (Johnlock), Bandage Scissors (Sherlolly), and Point of Maximal Impulse (Johnlock, alternate meeting) are highly medical, if that's something you like.


End file.
